Sugar low, lights high.

Storytelling, grunge, beat drop, emo, epic, heartfelt, theatrical, circus, catchy

(Verse 1)
Dispatch tones at 3 AM,
“Child unconscious,” we roll again.
Rain hits hard on the ambulance glass,
Mother screaming while we haul ass.

Little body limp on the living room floor,
Insulin pen caps scattered by the door.
Dad says he skipped dinner after practice tonight,
Now his skin’s cold underneath porch lights.

Past medical history?
Type One since age three.
Last glucose check?
“Two hours ago… maybe.”

Medication list on the kitchen stand,
Half-finished juice clenched in his hand.
Combative, altered, drifting away,
Diaphoresis soaking through Spider-Man gray.

(Pre-Chorus)
Kussmaul breaths cutting through the room,
Deep and rapid like an oncoming doom.
Capnography tracing every fight,
While cardiac monitors burn green light.

(Chorus)
Blood sugar sixty-nine and dropping fast,
Every second wondering if this breath’s the last.
D10 hanging while the sirens scream,
Pushing five per kilo through a tiny vein.

Oral glucose if they can still speak,
Glucagon IM if they’re too weak.
No IV? No time? We improvise tonight,
Trying to pull a child back into the light.

(Verse 2)
Seizure protocol sitting ready by my side,
Because hypoglycemia turns quick and violent.
Twelve-lead running just in case,
Tachycardia painted across his face.

Differentials ripping through my head:
Trauma? Toxins? Seizure instead?
Could be ingestion, stroke, or pain,
But that glucometer tells me everything.

Blood pressure soft, skin pale and dry,
Tiny chest pulling air too hard to try.
Abdominal pain and vomiting too,
Ketones hanging heavy like bad news.

Firefighter starts the IO drill,
Mom crying harder when the kid goes still.
Crystalloid bolus ten per kilo wide,
Trying to keep perfusion alive.

(Breakdown)
Check the airway.
Check the sugar.
Check the pulse.
Check again.

Because pediatric calls
Don’t follow rules.
And insulin kills quieter
Than trauma ever will.

(Chorus)
Blood sugar under seventy again,
Repeat the dextrose, reassess again.
Monitor every five till the numbers climb,
Trying to buy one more minute of time.

No oral glucose if they can’t protect,
Airway first— never forget.
Glucagon won’t always work when they’re starved,
And some nights medicine still feels hard.

(Bridge)
Some kids bounce back before we leave,
Asking for cartoons and something to eat.
Some stare blank through fluorescent haze,
While parents collapse beside the bay.

Long-acting insulin scares me most,
Because rebound lows become midnight ghosts.
Even when the numbers normalize,
I still watch fear behind their eyes.

(Outro)
Children’s ER under sodium white,
Another handoff near daylight.
“Patient now alert,” I calmly say,
Like my heartbeat didn’t almost break.

I wash dextrose from my gloves alone,
Thinking about how fragile bodies grow.
Because tiny hearts crash hard and fast,
And some calls never truly pass.

Blood sugar stable.
Crew back in service.
But I still hear monitors
Long after the sirens quit.

2920/7500

(Verse 1) Dispatch tones at 3 AM, “Child unconscious,” we roll again. Rain hits hard on the ambulance glass, Mother screaming while we haul ass. Little body limp on the living room floor, Insulin pen caps scattered by the door. Dad says he skipped dinner after practice tonight, Now his skin’s cold underneath porch lights. Past medical history? Type One since age three. Last glucose check? “Two hours ago… maybe.” Medication list on the kitchen stand, Half-finished juice clenched in his hand. Combative, altered, drifting away, Diaphoresis soaking through Spider-Man gray. (Pre-Chorus) Kussmaul breaths cutting through the room, Deep and rapid like an oncoming doom. Capnography tracing every fight, While cardiac monitors burn green light. (Chorus) Blood sugar sixty-nine and dropping fast, Every second wondering if this breath’s the last. D10 hanging while the sirens scream, Pushing five per kilo through a tiny vein. Oral glucose if they can still speak, Glucagon IM if they’re too weak. No IV? No time? We improvise tonight, Trying to pull a child back into the light. (Verse 2) Seizure protocol sitting ready by my side, Because hypoglycemia turns quick and violent. Twelve-lead running just in case, Tachycardia painted across his face. Differentials ripping through my head: Trauma? Toxins? Seizure instead? Could be ingestion, stroke, or pain, But that glucometer tells me everything. Blood pressure soft, skin pale and dry, Tiny chest pulling air too hard to try. Abdominal pain and vomiting too, Ketones hanging heavy like bad news. Firefighter starts the IO drill, Mom crying harder when the kid goes still. Crystalloid bolus ten per kilo wide, Trying to keep perfusion alive. (Breakdown) Check the airway. Check the sugar. Check the pulse. Check again. Because pediatric calls Don’t follow rules. And insulin kills quieter Than trauma ever will. (Chorus) Blood sugar under seventy again, Repeat the dextrose, reassess again. Monitor every five till the numbers climb, Trying to buy one more minute of time. No oral glucose if they can’t protect, Airway first— never forget. Glucagon won’t always work when they’re starved, And some nights medicine still feels hard. (Bridge) Some kids bounce back before we leave, Asking for cartoons and something to eat. Some stare blank through fluorescent haze, While parents collapse beside the bay. Long-acting insulin scares me most, Because rebound lows become midnight ghosts. Even when the numbers normalize, I still watch fear behind their eyes. (Outro) Children’s ER under sodium white, Another handoff near daylight. “Patient now alert,” I calmly say, Like my heartbeat didn’t almost break. I wash dextrose from my gloves alone, Thinking about how fragile bodies grow. Because tiny hearts crash hard and fast, And some calls never truly pass. Blood sugar stable. Crew back in service. But I still hear monitors Long after the sirens quit.

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